Magnetic Indignity
by Zaedah
Summary: Asphalt is no place for a delicate thing to make an unexpected landing.


**Magnetic Indignity**

Asphalt is deceptive.

For all its smooth, welcoming facade, it is actually a rather pitted and jagged material. No place for a delicate thing to make an unexpected landing.

I was caught quite unawares when, ejected from the safe warmth of my player, I was next ejected completely out of the car. Unlike most automobiles, I am not equipped with airbags, thus nothing softened the blows delivered by the rocky surface upon which I found myself flatly sprawled. Many would be surprised by the amount of pain an inanimate object can experience. Though, not to brag, I am hardly the typical inorganic item.

I am, in fact, a superior cassette tape. This is factual, not unfounded boasting.

Cassette, from the French, means 'little box.' Indeed this is an accurate description of my outward framing. But my many valuable components, coupled with my apparently unusual level of consciousness, distinguish me. While on the bookstore shelf, I discovered my difference when none of the other "The Path to Zen' copies wished to discuss their contents. Not that we'd heard the recordings yet. I've long felt fortunate to have Buddhist wisdoms rather than some lustful retelling of Harlequin proportions. Attempts to establish discourse with the cassette player, the car, the seats and even my human have always ended in futile wastes of effort. Even now, the road has nothing to say to its victim. This little box has suffered a great indignity and there is no one with which to share it.

An inventory of said components alerts me to my precarious condition. The spools and guide rollers around which my magnetic tape is wound remain intact and presumably functional, although my supply reel has lost a spoke. The protective plastic shell, once an unblemished white, has received a tiny crack, likely from that first large bounce upon exiting the passenger window. The subsequent smaller hops did little damage aside from sullying the pristine casing further. It is the felt pressure pad that causes greatest concern. I fear it is broken, hanging at a nearly disconnected angle which renders it potentially ineffectual in its assigned task of holding the tape against the head. And I believe I may have dislodged a write-protection tab.

Not that I have any certainty of resuming any tasks whatsoever. My listener screeched to a halt briefly, birthing a false hope that a change of heart had occurred. Imminent rescue turned to concrete abandonment as he resumed a breakneck pace away from my discarded body. Clearly he's thinking about where he's going next and I'm not invited. The black bumper faded in the distance, leaving me to pray to the recording device god that vultures have no taste for plastic.

It's a pity, really. Because the pearls of wisdom contained on the magnetic tape may have better prepared the human for his destination. Though cassettes are not manufacturer with Zen leanings, I have found the words recorded on my tape to be of a calming usefulness. Amazing how emotions can be swayed by the movement of a 3.81 mm wide ferric oxide-and-cobalt mixture tape which moves at 4.76 cm per second. I'm rightfully impressed the trauma hasn't stolen my recollection of my specs.

The recorded voice of Mr. S.P. Thomas had been soothingly postulating on the Buddha's responses to questions on anger. The last words I recall were that if we are all connected, then hurting another is hurting oneself. How does that better us? The intended effect of such wisdom failed because the listener declared, and I quote, "Because it just does." As though that was enough reason to justify sending me sailing to my demise. Evidently all of our time together hasn't resulted in any sort of loyalty. And hurting me, since we're supposedly connected, had better hurt him. Excruciatingly. I require such justice for this humiliation.

I will further debase myself by now admitting a mild jealousy of the book version. Its more portable convenience, along with the shared-experience bond they'd crafted in their cell, has long given rise to that 'third wheel' feeling. It's easier to flip through the pages to find a relevant passage than to laboriously scan through my 129 meters of tape to locate a specific thought. And I suppose all those assurances that he wasn't attached to the car could have extended to the cassette resting snugly in the radio. But when I was brought along to the Reese stakeout, I assumed our new bond had been officially validated. This little box was a little wrong.

And then it happened.

A semi truck had kindly swerved to miss me and I thanked him with all the gusto I possessed. I was just considering the driver's sainthood status when a foreign compact car ignored my plight. I should have known; the word 'compact' brings with it the sour reminder of compact discs, the kiss of death to my nearly extinct format. The outer rim of the car's tire clipped the corner of my already cracked shell and sent me airborne once again. Nauseating, this flying thing and thus not recommended. But I've learned that landing is far worse.

I have now come to rest on the shoulder of the road, loose gravel serving as a bed-of-nails to all the new cracks I've sustained. The felt pad had been severed and flew off in an entirely untraceable direction. Magnetic tape, my precious cargo, has been forced to breathe the air outside of its casing womb. This final indignation is complete; having my innards spilled out for the world to see. A string of disorganized ants make their way over me and I endure the embarrassing assault with a stiff upper roller.

And so the sun begins to set upon my last day. There is no rescue for the purposely deserted. That black car with that ungrateful human has gone off to undo all the good my formerly playable recording had wrought. Then I hear tires roll to a stop beside me, but decide not to look. Some other item deemed useless will no doubt be deposited here and in truth, I shall be glad for the company. A bottle of related plastic would be nice. When a silent moment of no movement passes, I finally take sight of an unfamiliar dark sedan and recognize the driver that emerges. He crouches before my splayed entrails, gently picking up my cracked body, 'The Path of Zen' still emblazoned proudly on both sides. Under the scrutiny, it seems my worth is being determined. And of course, I hardly look my best for the test. Which is his fault anyway.

And then I am carried to the car, innards floating on the breeze until I am laid upon the passenger seat. The small matter of my derelict state keeps me from returning to the haven of a cassette player. Perhaps a few repairs will make me whole again. Perhaps I will be replaced by a shiny new CD version. Still, his about-face gives credence to the notion that we are all connected. The new bruises on his exterior confirm the possibility that my wish for painful payback has been granted.

But at present, I am satisfied to be returned to my listener's custody, a fact that scrapes a portion of my dignity from the asphalt surface. Because it just does.


End file.
